On the friendships that raise you
Finding and losing my first best friend made me. Our bond was a universe that I lived inside of for my entire high school life. I’m still learning not to underestimate the mark it left on me. Even after moving to a new city and starting university, I haven’t managed to fully erase her influence. I’m scared to think she might always be a part of me.
In many ways, my best friend was the upbringing I chose. My school and town and family were not in my control, but I picked her entirely by myself at the age of eleven, and we grew up together. We were two equally older sisters desperate to be adults, teaching and learning from each other simultaneously. It was no secret that we were impressionable. And so, more than just thoughts, we were sharing parts of our brains; swapping pieces of ourselves between us.
From the start, the value of our bond was heavy. She was a life-boat and a weapon all in one. Being friends with her made me better somehow; I thought that being liked by her was an attribute, a selling point of my personality. She was my talisman. I clung to the idea of her when everything else in the teen years seemed wrong.
A lot of my emotions hung on the weight of this, as did hers. We could influence each other easier than anyone else, and there was power in this. We were like children learning the strength of our own punches for the first time, amazed at our ability to undermine and manipulate. Sometimes I would look around me and secretly think the universe of our friendship was taking from me more than it gave.
After deciding to be her best friend, I lived with that choice and all its repercussions for years. And eventually, I had to make the next decision. I knew we couldn’t be friends anymore.
When I withdrew from her, I was surprised by how much it hurt. I still had chunks of her mind in my mind, and I couldn’t shake her commentary from my life. For months, I would get jealous whenever I walked past her house, knowing her life was continuing inside it without me. I hated that she had other friends, who were able to talk to her without the complications and intensities that stood between the two of us. I felt stupid for hurting because I knew that it had been my decision.
It has been long enough now that I can’t miss us anymore, but she still makes me sad. Years later, I still have conversations about my deepest insecurities and realise I am essentially talking about her. Growing out of our friendship has been just as hard work as our being inside our friendship was.
Despite everything, throughout the process of making and breaking the friendship, I have never doubted either decision. I think there is inherent damage involved in friendship, and in choosing to leave it behind. And if there was an option to remove all the splinters that she left in me, as well as all the lessons it taught me, I wouldn’t take it.
By Cara Stray
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